by Diana Palmer
Her quiet eyes were frankly appraising, and he lifted a dark eyebrow.
“Do I fascinate you, Miss Glenn?” he asked on a laugh. “Or are you looking for an appropriate place to plant a dagger?”
She raised her chin to show him she wasn’t intimidated. “I was just thinking how amazing it is that the chair hasn’t collapsed under your weight.”
He laughed softly, laughter that had a frankly predatory sound. “Were you? I’m not that big.”
“No,” she said with mock sincerity, “you’re just a small mountain, that’s all.”
His dark eyes narrowed as they appraised her, and she wanted to back off and run. He disturbed her.
“I am not on the menu,” she said boldly.
“Pity,” he murmured. “You might taste better than you look.”
She lifted her cup and cocked her head to one side.
“I wouldn’t,” he said calmly. “You’d have to spend the evening washing up.”
She sighed angrily. “I don’t like you.”
He smiled slowly. “If I hadn’t learned so much about your sex the hard way, I might be tempted to make you like me,” he said very quietly. “But fortunately for you, I’ve lost my taste for it. An occasional night out satisfies me very well these days.”
He sounded and looked as if women held no more secrets for him, and she felt vaguely grateful that he wasn’t interested in her. A man like that, with his obvious experience, could make mincemeat of her.
“Excuse me while I get down on my knees and give thanks for that saving grace,” she told him and offered him the sandwiches.
He took one and studied it carefully.
“Looking for something?” she asked as she lifted one for herself.
“Arsenic,” he said bluntly.
She burst out laughing. “I used the last on the bus driver who let me off a mile from my stop,” she promised. “Honestly, it’s safe.”
He bit into it, finished it and smiled. “Not bad. I didn’t know tuna could taste so good.”
“It’s the pickled peach juice,” she murmured dryly. “Dad taught me how to make it. He does most of the cooking. My mother can burn water.”
“What does she do?”
“She sets type for my father, who runs the print shop. She’s very good at that, and dealing with customers, but she isn’t domestic. I learned to cook or starve at an early age.” She finished her own sandwich and took a sip of coffee. “How long have you been in construction?” she asked politely.
His broad shoulders shrugged as he finished his second sandwich. “I think I was born doing it. My parents died when I was just a child. My grandmother raised me, pushed me into finding a profession I liked instead of just one I took for money.” He smiled faintly. “I found I enjoyed building things. She prodded me until I called up a cousin who was an architect and asked him point-blank how I could get into the business. He was impressed enough to hire me on the spot. I worked for him between college classes. When I graduated he gave me an executive position.” His eyes grew wistful. “He had no immediate family, and he hated most of his distant relatives. When he died, I inherited the company. I’ve expanded it, enlarged it. Now it’s almost too big for me. I have a board of directors and every damned decision I make, I have to fight for.”
“I’m glad I’m just a tadpole,” she said with a sigh. “I’d hate that.”
“I enjoy it,” he murmured, dark eyes smiling at her across the table. “I like the challenge. It keeps my blood pumping.”
At his age, surely a family would help. She studied him for a long moment, unaware of the blatant curiosity in her eyes.
“Well?” he asked. “Spit it out.”
She shifted in the chair, feeling her nudity under the caftan as if he’d reached out and touched her. She hadn’t been self-conscious with him before, but now she wished she was dressed.
“I just wondered why you weren’t married.”
“Because I don’t want to be,” he replied. His dark eyes sparkled mischievously. “Or did you think I was over the hill? I assure you, I’m not. At least, not in the respect you’re mulling over,” he added, watching her fidget nervously. He finished his coffee. “Are you going to La Pierre, or do I make a phone call?” he asked.
She sighed defeatedly. “I’ll go. But I’ll never forgive you.”
“That won’t matter,” he said. “We won’t see each other again.” He stood up. “Thanks for the meal.”
“You’re welcome.”
She walked him to the door, expecting him to go right out it. But he didn’t. He turned and suddenly put his big hands on either side of her face and tilted it up to his dark eyes.
“Just to set you right on something…” he murmured, and bent his head.
His mouth came down on hers roughly, a warm assault that quickly parted her set lips and searched them with a pressure that was demanding and frankly expert. Within seconds, she was his, a victim turned coconspirator, a willing victim with a frantic heartbeat. She’d been kissed before, infrequently, but it had never been like this. She wanted it to go on forever. Her eyes were closed, her fists clenched tightly by her sides, her body throbbing even though he didn’t touch it or bring her one inch closer. She savored the rough pressure of his lips on hers and tasted him in one wild second with all the sensual curiosity she’d ever experienced for a man.
His head lifted a fraction of an inch and he looked into her drowsy, dazed eyes. “Why, you little fraud,” he breathed. “It was pure bravado this morning, wasn’t it? You don’t even know how!”
She almost said “teach me,” she almost reached up to him. But sanity came back just in the nick of time. She eased away from him, her eyes nervous but steady on his face.
“Are you through?” she asked through lips swollen from the pressure of his mouth, which had, at the last, been formidable.
“Yes.” He studied her with a ghost of a smile on his broad, craggy face. “Odd how things happen. I’m sorry we come from such different walks of life. I’d have enjoyed teaching you. A twenty-eight year old innocent,” he added with a visible twinkle in his dark eyes, “is an intriguing proposition.”
“You just take your propositions and go away and play with your building blocks. I’ll do your dirty work. And you keep that male stripper away from my office, please, I need my job.”
“Seven sharp,” he returned. He opened the door with a last, lingering look. “You could make your living as an exotic dancer,” he said quietly. “I’ve never seen a more exquisite body.”
He turned and left her standing there. It was a full minute before she could close the door again. Cold fish, indeed! More like a dormant volcano….
Three
Mr. Callahan was around sixty, had a bald head and narrow little eyes, wore glasses and was half Amelia’s size. He could out curse any sailor in port on a spree, and his compassion stopped at the door of his plant. He did not give leaves of absence, he did not like illness, and if there had been another job going anywhere, Amelia would have taken it on the spot. But openings were so hard to find in the raw economic times that she gritted her teeth and did what she was told. The only thing worse than this would be going back to Seagrove, a small town on the coast near Savannah, Georgia, and helping her parents run the print shop. That would take her close to Henry Janrett, who still expected her to come home and marry him when she got big-city living out of her blood. Henry ran the small town’s sole newspaper. He wrote a column about beekeeping, when he wasn’t lazing around local officials’ offices jotting down notes. He was a sweet man, just about Amelia’s own age, and she supposed someday she might even give in and do it. But Henry seemed a desperate last chance, and meanwhile she was still hoping for a crack at an exciting occupation in the big city. She didn’t know why she’d picked Chicago. Perhaps because her Navy veteran mother had been stationed at a naval base near Chicago during World War II and had come to Chicago on leave, and Amelia had heard such fascinating things about the W
indy City. Perhaps it was its ancient gangster history. She’d come here a year ago in a last-ditch attempt to find something her life lacked, before she went over the hill completely. She’d been hoping for excitement and adventure. And she’d found Mr. Callahan.
She groaned as she filled out another order form. Then she thought about what she had to do at 7:00 p.m. and groaned again. She called Marla at lunch and asked if she could borrow the belly dancer’s costume.
“Why?” Marla asked.
“I don’t have time for deep questions,” Amelia grumbled. “Can I or can’t I?”
“Well…sure. He went to see you, didn’t he? I had to give him your address, you just can’t say no to him; but I thought he was going to mail you a letter….”
“I can’t tell you what it’s all about, so don’t ask.” Amelia sighed. “But Andy isn’t going to like it.”
“What is he having you do? Oh, Amelia, you can tell me, I’m your friend!”
Mr. Callahan came out of his office, saw her on the phone and glared.
“Yes, sir,” Amelia said calmly, “that’s right, our new manure spreader can handle all your requirements.”
“What?” Marla faltered.
“If you’ll get your order right in the mail…. Oh, you’re just checking on it, you don’t want to place an order at this time? But you are keeping us in mind? How nice of you, sir!”
Marla was giggling. “Mr. Callahan, I presume? See you later, darling.”
“Yes, sir, certainly. Goodbye.” Amelia hung up and gave Mr. Callahan a bright smile.
He nodded approvingly. “Nice public relations work, girl. Very nice.” He walked on by, and Amelia tried not to slide down in her chair with relief.
Of course, Marla was waiting like a big spider when Amelia got to her office late that evening.
“What are you going to do, and where?” Marla asked. “You’ve got to tell me! What has that man put you up to?”
“I can’t tell you,” Amelia groaned, knowing that Marla would rush to tell Andy, and then she’d have a male stripper in her office…arrrgh!
“I’m your friend,” Marla coaxed.
“So far, so good, will you swear out an affidavit to that effect and keep it on hand, I may need it,” she murmured as she drew on the belly dancer’s costume and tugged her trench coat over it. “This is getting to be a real drag, you know?” she muttered.
“Where are you going?” Marla asked.
“Out to eat.”
“Where?”
The phone rang in time to save her. Marla answered it, and Amelia got her purse and started out the door.
“Yes, of course I understand, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Marla was saying. “Yes, I’m sure the weather’s cooler there. It’s too bad she’s sick.”
Amelia waved and left. Rather than walk, she got a cab across town to the French restaurant. She walked in, nervous, fuming, and asked for Carlos.
The hostess gave her a blank stare. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want to speak to Carlos,” Amelia said again. “He’s expecting me.”
“To do what?” the hostess burst out, staring at the trench coat, which showed no blouse or skirt or slacks.
Amelia leaned forward. “I’m stark naked,” she said with a stage leer. “I’m supposed to jump out and scare an old lady in there. Now will you please get Carlos?”
“Yes, ma’am!” the hostess said quickly, backing away.
Amelia blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. Of all the hangups, why did it have to happen to her? She glared around her, hating the elegant restaurant, hating Wentworth Carson, hating the whole world. Things had been going so well lately….
It seemed to take forever to get Carlos. But minutes later she heard footsteps and turned to see a tall, very somber policeman walking toward her.
“Okay, lady,” the policeman said, and brought out a pair of handcuffs. “Let’s go see the sergeant.”
“No!” Amelia burst out. “No, you can’t! I’m here for a legitimate reason. Let me show you!”
She started to unbutton the trench coat, and the policeman quickly got her hands behind her and whipped on the handcuffs.
“No, you don’t!” the policeman said quickly. “No flashing! Honest to God, you college kids give me a pain. Thanks for calling me, Dolores. I’ll take care of her. Come on, honey.”
“Thanks, Dolores,” Amelia sputtered at the stunned hostess. “I’ll do you a favor someday. What’re your favorite colors, and I’ll send flowers along with the bomb.”
“Terrorist threats and acts,” the policeman muttered as he led her toward the waiting squad car. “Honest to God, you could get ten years.”
Amelia started to speak just as a photographer rushed up and exploded a flashbulb in her face.
“Open the coat, honey, open the coat, let’s get some good pics!” the photographer called, and the policeman put her in the car and went forward to argue with the photographer.
Amelia sank back against the seat and closed her eyes. There are days, she thought pleasantly, when it’s just the very devil to get out of bed at all.
She eventually got everything straightened out. But it took a phone call to a very upset Marla, who had to come downtown and explain everything to the desk sergeant, who looked like a man who’d heard everything once and didn’t have a spare nerve left in his entire body.
“I will die, I will just die,” Amelia moaned when she and Marla were back at the Kennedys’ garage apartment. “Imagine me being arrested! Arrested! And for flashing…. I will kill that man,” she said, wide-eyed. “I will kill him stone-cold dead.”
“I may help you,” Marla said darkly. “Imagine, setting up poor Andy and his mother that way.” She frowned. “But, darling, Andy had gone home to see about his mother. She got sick early this morning.”
Amelia stopped and blinked. “What?”
“Andy went home.”
“But he told me to go to La Pierre tonight,” she gasped. “He told me to ask for Carlos….” She moaned again. “And there was a photographer! He took my picture!”
Marla stared at her. “What if he was a press photographer?”
She buried her head in her hands. “I’ll die.”
“Well, maybe he wasn’t. You get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning it will all seem like a bad dream, you’ll see.” Marla hugged her. “You’ve had an awful night, I know. Just have a nice bath and go to sleep, and in the morning it will be all right.”
“Will it?” Amelia asked pitifully, needing reassurance.
“Really.”
But in the morning, she went to get her newspaper. And when she opened it, there she was, shocked face and all, on the front page, being arrested in a trench coat. And the cutline read, “Who says flashing is passé? This young lady was arrested au naturel at Chez Pierre last night for attempting to flash the exclusive clientele. Tough luck, isn’t she lovely?”
She closed the newspaper just as the phone rang. She didn’t need even one guess.
“Hello, Mr. Callahan,” she said hopefully.
“You’re fired!” he yelled, and hung up.
She sat down with a sigh beside her cooling morning coffee. So much for things getting better.
After she dressed, she phoned Marla. “I want Mr. Wentworth Carson’s address.”
“Darling…” Marla began.
“You call Andy and find out for me where he lives. I am not going to do this at his office, I am going to go to his home and kill him where he stands.”
“But, darling….”
“Do it.” She hung up.
Several harrowing hours later, after she’d exhausted the terrifying possibilities of unemployment and the rent being due, she drove up the long, winding driveway of an estate in Lincoln Park. It was an exclusive neighborhood, and she wasn’t shocked by the very elegant and enormous brick home sitting at the end of that flowery, tree-shaded drive. She parked her elderly but respectable Ford at the front door and got out, glar
ing at the white Rolls Royce as she passed by on her way up the steps.
She was wearing her gray business suit with a sedate white blouse and white accessories. She looked very prim and proper with her hair in a bun and the minimum of makeup. And she only wished she could drive a tank into the front door. She wanted to make a very good impression on Wentworth Carson. A lasting, physical impression.
She rang the bell. An elderly man opened the door and smiled at her. “Yes, madam, may I help you?”
“I am here to see Wentworth Carson,” she said quietly.
“Mr. Carson is in the study,” he said. “May I announce you?”
“You may not,” she replied, pushing past him. “I will announce myself. Which way is the study, please?”
The elderly man hesitated, but his restraint was unnecessary. Wentworth Carson himself was standing in the doorway of the plushly carpeted room, wearing slacks and a burgundy knit shirt, hands in slacks pockets, staring at her.
“Miss Glenn,” he said politely.
“Mr. Carson,” she replied with equal politeness.
“Why are you here?” he asked curtly. “And how did you get this address?”
“Those questions are hardly relevant.” She produced a folded newspaper from under her arm and handed it to him.
He frowned and then opened the paper. His eyes blinked as he read. His head lifted. “What the hell did you do, woman?”
“I went to La Pierre to surprise Andy.”
He was trying not to laugh. “Well, it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? He didn’t show up.” He glanced at her. “But didn’t you look at the sign?”
Her head moved a little. “What?”
“Didn’t you look at the sign?”
He handed her the paper. She looked. There on the marquis was “Chez Pierre.”
She felt faint. But she was made of sturdy stuff. During the Civil War one of her great-grandmothers had held off a company of Yankees for two days until help arrived to vanquish them. Amelia stood erect.
